Mark doesn't cry
by TheMiniMenzel
Summary: Mark doesn't cry. He couldn't break, he wouldn't break. Rated for suicide. But not Mark's suicide! One shot.


**Well, I haven't written for a while. My Grandma died so I've been a bit distracted. But now I'm back. But possibly more angsty then usual. I've got this new thing for angst. So, I know this story idea has been used god knows how many times but like I say, I'm obsessed with angst. And angsty Mark is best. Okay. Shutting up now.**

**Disclaimers note: I don't own- *fights urge to make a bad pun* I don't own- *forces hand away from the E-M-O-T-I-O-N buttons* I don't own…emotion I reeeeeeeeeent! Sorry, had to be done. I don't own emotion or RENT. But I rent. Without emotion. Okay. I'm done. **

**Tashie,**

**X,**

Mark had never been one to cry. He'd never been one to cry at all. Last time he'd cried was when his Dad left. But he was eight years old then. He didn't even cry at funerals.

When his Grandma died when he was fourteen and he (along with the other three grandchildren) was required to tell a memory of his Grandmother to the congregation, he had been the only child not to break down in tears. He merely stood, straight back and numbed mindset, in front of the mourning crowd and delivered his memory loud and clear. Cindy had cornered him after the ceremony and poked him in the ribs for not showing any sign of emotion.

Mark's tradition of not crying was carried on through the deaths of his other Grandparents.

April had killed herself in his bathroom, yet Mark didn't cry. Tears didn't even fill his eyes when he stumbled upon Roger, kneeling over his deceased girlfriend's body, scarlet blood gushing from her wrists, coating Roger in the poisonous fluid.

When Angel passed he was again, the only one not to cry before, during or after the ceremony. He'd watched as the fabric holding the family together tore at the seams, threatening to rip at any moment and break the family apart.

Mimi was the next to go, losing her battle on his and Roger's kitchen table. Roger insisted they get the thing removed, the memories it held were too painful. As the gang mourned the loss of bright Mimi, Mark held Roger at night when sobs racked his body and tore him from the streets when he insisted on having a hit to numb the pain. But he still didn't break his tradition of not crying.

Collins had gone next, though not because of AIDS. Well, in a sense it was because of AIDS, however the virus hadn't taken his life. Thomas B. Collins died of a gun shot to the head. Suicide. Life without Angel took it's tole on the professor: life had no meaning, there was no reason to go on when he could be with Angel for eternity. Or so he hoped any way. He put a gun to his head only five minutes after Mark finished visiting on Christmas Eve a year after Mimi died. Mark had been the one to find him, hearing the heart wrenching shot from halfway down the street. He knew without a doubt that it came from Collins' apartment. He hadn't seemed the same that night.

Running up the street, Mark had ignored the painfully cold wind invading his lungs, concentrating only on getting to Collins. But when Mark arrived and was met by the sight of Collins holding a blood drenched photo of Angel to his chest, he knew he had to let him die. And even then, as Mark stood by one of his oldest friends and watched his bleed to death, he still didn't cry.

When Roger died though, everything changed. Mark had been by his side the whole time, grasping his clammy hands so hard that his fingers went purple, wiping the vomit from his mouth with a towel, holding his hair back as he gagged on his own sick, sending blood and vomit everywhere. Mark had watched as his friends body turned against him, watched the virus take hold of him. Mark stood by when Roger took his last breath, before an unseen force tore him from life and carried him away to the other side.

At Roger's funeral Mark stood, ready to make his speech. Maureen and Joanne, along with Roger's other few friends were scattered about the church, suppressing tears. Mark stood up on the platform, shuffling his feet with an awkward air.

"Roger. I remember the first time we met. We were in pre school. You came up to me with one of those plastic guitars and shoved it in my face. "Wanna hear a song?" You asked. I was freaking out, you seemed like one of the big kids, but you were in my grade. I nodded, afraid you'd throw a crayon at me or steal my glasses."

So far so good. No tears. No tears. No tears.

"So you pressed a few buttons, playing some awful song but I laughed anyway, and clapped a bit for you in fear that you'd do one of the aforementioned things. Your whole life you'd always had your guitar, weather it was the stupid plastic one or the Fender. I really admired your dedication to what you loved. Even if you didn't ever find your song."

Okay. Half of it's over. Keep on going, Mark willed himself on. Ignoring the painful tightness of his throat.

"So Rog, now you're up there with April, Mimi, Angel and Collins…mm, I just hope there's no fights between April and Meem's over who gets you!" Mark laughed dryly, watching as Maureen lifted her head from Joanne's shoulder to form a smile of sorts.

Don't cry. Nearly there.

"Anyway, I hope I'll see you soon, just make sure you guys aren't too high when I arrive! Who knows what'll happen with Collins up there? And Rog…can you please play a song when I get there? I miss Musetta's Waltz already."

Mark sighed a little, glancing down at his pallid hands which had somehow found each other and were now tangled together.

Mark fought to go on. He tried to ignore the terrible tightness closing in on his throat. He needed to keep going. Needed to finish his speech. Needed to say goodbye to Roger.

Mark sighed, his voice quivering a bit. "You still are the little boy with the gelled back hair and toy guitar to me Rog- Roger and always- always will- always will- be," Mark fell to the floor, smashing against the ground as hot tears escaped his eyes. He heard a strangled sob escape his own throat, felt a pair of hands on his back, caressing his cheeks, another sob – was it his own?

And for the first time in nearly eighteen years, Mark Cohen cried.


End file.
